Just Don't Say Nothing

This past FFL was a hard one to go to.  Two years ago, I was 15 weeks pregnant with my fourth child.  Two weeks after I came home from the conference, I lost the baby.  The Marriott is full of bittersweet memories.

As I was on my way to one session, I passed a seating area that I remembered from two years ago.  There I had sat, flanked by two of my wonderful FFLs, talking with Joe Solo.  I was feeling so tired.  But so happy.  I could feel my baby kicking, and it was wonderful.

This Thursday marks the two year anniversary of the day Nicolas was born still.  And much like most sad anniversaries, diaversaries included, it will pass largely unnoticed.

This post really isn't directed towards those living with D, but those of you who knows someone who does.

Anyone who has had something sad or bad happen to them, knows that most people don't know how to respond.  As the "anyone" in the last sentence, let me give you this nugget of wisdom:

Just Don't Say Nothing.

Even if the diagnosis was years ago, they still might need your words.

Sometimes when they're living in the mundane, everyday of their life, they need to know that someone is thinking of them, and caring about their struggles.

They need to be seen.

I'll never forget the time I was out at a restaurant with Elise when she was a baby.  I had checked her BG, given her a shot and fed her.  Towards the end of the meal, an older gentleman came up to me and said, "I think you're doing a wonderful job, mom."

Oh. My. Gosh.  The tears.  He saw me.  There I was, just doing what had become routine (a very crappy routine), and he saw me.

And Said Something.

After I admit that I've been struggling, people often ask me, "why didn't you say anything?"

My answer is this; sometimes, you are too busy drowning to scream.  When you're drowning, it takes every ounce of what you have to just keep your head above the water.  You don't have the energy to scream.  You need those who are around you to look up and take notice.

You need to be seen.

While I was at the conference, a friend mentioned my blog, and talked about Nicolas.  And you know what?  Mentioning Nicolas didn't make me sad.  I'm already sad.  My heart already hurts.  Speaking his name cannot break my heart anymore than it already is.

No, talking about Nicolas brought me joy.  Because someone remembered him.  My friend "saw" him. And by doing so, saw me.

Just Don't Say Nothing.

I've also experienced the opposite; friends that are completely tuned out.  And their silence speaks volumes.  

If you know someone with diabetes, or who has a child with diabetes, or a spouse with diabetes, or is dealing with some type of heartache:

Tell them you see them.

Tell them you love them.

Let them know they're doing a good job.

Just Don't Say Nothing.

Anniversaries are supposed to be happy

We've never really celebrated Elise's diaversary. Not for lack of wanting to, but because it comes two days after her birthday, the day before Mattias's birthday, a week after mine, plus it's mashed in there with school starting. There's just a lot going on in a span of a few weeks.

We always acknowledge it; praise Elise for how brave she is, talk about how far we've come, and how thankful we are for discoveries and technology.  The day is bittersweet, because it is not only the day our lives irrevocably changed, but also the day our daughter's life was saved.

Today marks a year since we lost Nicolas.  I have been dreading its coming for weeks, because slowly I was being transported back to a time of such intense bleakness and pain, I was afraid I would never emerge.

How to you acknowledge the passing of a life you never knew, except for the 17 weeks you carried him?  One that you loved from the moment you discovered he existed, but you never got to tell him? A life you've always wanted, but was never meant to be? 

Today he would be almost 7 months old.  Learning to crawl.  Discovering solid foods.  He would have attended his first FFL with us.

Just like with Elise's diagnosis, I get mired down in the "what ifs". And it's a dangerous spiral.  So just like with Elise, I want to try and look towards hope.

I know where he is.  I know I will see him again.  I know that he is not in pain and will never have to suffer the sadness of this world.

And I am thankful to the kind friends who have already reached out today.  Remembering that my son was here and will always be a part of my family. Acknowledging that his life had meaning.

It is this hope that will get me through.  And knowing that if Nicolas cannot be in my arms, then resting in the arms of Jesus is not a bad place at all to be.

The birthday that never came

December 26.

I have been dreading this day.  The day I was supposed to meet my son. I wish it could have been avoided, but the month has carried me to this day, much like a riptide carries one out to sea.   I was helpless against it.

Since July 21, there have been a lot of "supposed to's", but obviously this one is the hardest. My actual due date was January 1, but Nicolas was scheduled to arrive via c-section today.

There is so much I want to say, but losing Nicolas has stemmed the flow of words.  Writing through such sorrow is not easy for me because the emotions are so overwhelming I don't know how to express them.  Not a day has gone by when I haven't thought of him.  I would even go so far as to say not an hour passes without him being on my mind.

The day he was born was so traumatizing (I could seriously teach a class on how not to treat a woman in my situation), that I missed out on really seeing my son and saying goodbye.  The time I had with him was short and is already fading in my mind.  I wanted to write him a letter to say all the things I never got to tell him.

--------------------

Dear Nicolas,

Today was to be your day.  The day I would finally hold you in my arms and our family would be complete. I cannot describe the ache in both my arms and my heart today.

There is so much I wonder about you... hair colour, eye colour, height and weight. But so much more than that.  Who would you be? What would your life become?  There is such sadness in possibilities never realized. I long to see how your piece would have fit into our family puzzle.

Though I only carried you for 17 short weeks, you are forever with me.  I carry your named engraved upon a bracelet on my wrist, your initial graces a pendant I wear, and your soul is forever stamped on mine.

I am sorry. So sorry that I never got the chance to meet you. To look into your tiny eyes and kiss your nose.  I'm sorry for all the snuggles I missed and hours in the middle of the night when it was just you and I. The stories never read and lullabies never sung.

Finally, I want you to know how loved you are.  So very loved.  Your brother and sister still talk about you.  In their world, the span of a week is a lifetime, so it seems you are eternally on their minds as well.  In fact, to them you are a part of the family, just as they are.  Your sister was telling someone just the other day that she has three brothers. 

Merry Christmas Nicolas. The only thing missing is you

And so, my sweet boy, Happy supposed-to-be Birthday.  I miss you.  I love you.  I always will.

Love,
Your Mama

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind always be at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

and rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of his hand

In memory of Nicolas Daniel

Yesterday was National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Day.  I didn't find that out until well into the afternoon.  It makes me sad that the day that is meant to honour our lost children isn't really talked about. 

Much like the loss itself.

I discovered that there would be a candle lighting close to where I live, so the kids and I went.

I lit a candle and cried for my son.  And for all the little lives taken too soon.

Every cry is a song

Every song is a prayer

And our prayers must be heard

Fill the air

-Hothouse Flowers

Darkness

If you are FB friends with my husband, you have already heard the news, but for those of you who are not, it is with immense grief and sadness that I share that we have lost the baby.

My water broke a week ago, but the baby still had a strong heartbeat, so they sent me home to see what would happen.  Unfortunately, the follow-up sonogram on Monday showed the heartbeat was gone and the baby had died over the weekend.

Monday I was induced and delivered a tiny baby boy, who we named Nicolas Daniel.  The pain and heartbreak is indescribable.

I am thankful that we do have the joy of Elise's involvement with the bionic pancreas trial to focus on, and I will do my best to post updates.

Thank you to all who sent messages via FB, or email.  I have read every single one of them with tears in my eyes, knowing that we are loved.